Wedding Night
by Celli
Summary: "The problem with being best man at a wedding is that you never get a chance to prove it." --Unknown. V/F; implied S/V and S/W. Smut.


Feedback: Positive or negative both welcome.   
celli@fanfic101.com   
Category: Smut, humor, futurefic.  
Rating: R for non-explicit sex.   
Pairing: *cough* Vaughn/Francie. Put those   
pitchforks down! Also implied S/V and S/W,   
and emphatically denied Wancie. *g*  
Spoilers: Nothing specific.  
Summary: "The problem with being best man at a wedding   
is that you never get a chance to prove it." --Unknown   
Archiving: Cover Me, Omega-17, and my site   
(www.fanfic101.com); anyone else please ask.  
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various   
other people with lawyers. Sadly, this means that I do not   
own Vaughn or his tux, although I have a great recipe for   
pigs-in-a-blanket if you'd like....  
  
So many people helped with such a small story! :) Thank you all:   
Diana, Robin, Gail, JenC, Jenai, and the Horsechicks.  
  
For Amanda.  
  
***  
  
Wedding Night  
by Celli Lane  
  
***  
  
we've got these chains that hang around our necks   
people want to strangle us with them   
before we take our first breath...  
  
***  
  
"Francie."  
  
She looked up and even managed a half-smile. "No more   
champagne for me, thanks."  
  
"I got some orange juice from the guy making the mimosas. "   
Michael--she was trying not to think of him by his last   
name, even if everyone except his mother seemed to call him   
Vaughn--set a glass in front of her and hooked his foot   
around a nearby chair. "Here, there's some of those little   
pigs with blanket things too."  
  
"Pigs *in* blanket things, I believe, is the correct term."   
Francie picked one up and considered it dubiously. "Did I   
look exceptionally hungry?"  
  
"Well, unless you and Sydney were hiding snacks in her   
veil, you haven't eaten all day. And it's one of the best   
man's jobs to keep the maid of honor from passing out. I   
read that somewhere."  
  
"I'm not going to pass out. I may fall asleep, but that's   
a different story."  
  
"Is that why you're back here? So no one will hear you   
snore?"  
  
"No, I'm here because I'm tired of smiling."  
  
"Christ, so am I. Every time I looked less than orgasmic   
up there," he jerked his head in the direction of the head   
table, "people would send Meaningful Glances in Will's   
direction."  
  
She choked on a mini hot dog. "You--I--oh," she concluded   
lamely.  
  
He laughed, and not for the first time that evening,   
Francie noticed the edge in it. "Tell me you weren't   
leaning in my direction when they got to the 'objection'   
part in church. Everyone else was."  
  
"Sorry," she said. She reached for the orange juice--why   
had she talked Will out of putting beer on the menu   
selection for the evening? "I was too busy biting my own   
tongue."  
  
"You were? Do I need to send a Meaningful Glance in Will's   
direction?"  
  
"What?" It took a minute to work it out, then she   
snickered. "*Will*? How many mimosas have you had, Mr.   
Vaughn? Will. Heh."  
  
"Then why...?"  
  
"Because they're...look at them." Francie had to lean   
until she was practically across Michael's lap before she   
could see them enough to point. "They're so...cute. And   
perky. And normal. I give it six months. Unless they   
decide to have a baby or something, in which case I give it   
a few years and massive therapy bills."  
  
Michael followed her pointing figure to the seemingly   
joyous couple on the dance floor. Will was attempting to   
talk with his hands while still keep them around Sydney's   
waist, while she was laughing up at him. "They look, well,   
cute. But good cute. Married cute."  
  
"Yes, but you've been wearing Not Bitter like a hat for a   
year. Sydney might look cute, but she is not, at heart, a   
cute person. She is a dangerous, reckless spy-type person.   
And Will is an adrenaline junkie, although not quite as bad   
as her. They're both so determined to not be their darker   
selves that it's stupid. They'll bore each other to death.   
I swear to God."   
  
She looked him in the eye to emphasize her sincerity and   
realized that she was a lot closer to his eyes than she'd   
ever been before. As she stared, leaned forward unthinkingly,   
bringing her chest into contact with his.  
  
"So...ah...give it some time, and you can have a shot at   
her again," she said over the buzzing in her ears.  
  
"I don't want a shot at her."  
  
"You don't?"  
  
"Nope." He pushed her back into her own chair, and her   
heart fell until he stood and offered her a hand. "I want   
to dance with the funniest girl here."  
  
"You do? I mean, oh."  
  
***  
  
afraid of change, afraid of staying the same,  
when temptation calls, we just look away...  
  
***  
  
The *snick* of her keycard in the lock seemed to echo down   
the hall. Francie half expected Syd and Will to pop out of   
the honeymoon suite--which was three floors up, so popping   
would be hard--and do, well, something that would embarrass   
them. But no one appeared; no shots rang out, no alarms   
went off except the ones in her head. She tightened her   
grip on Michael's hand and led him into the room.  
  
It was a pretty room, with cream walls, floral patterned   
drapes and linens, and--hell, who cared how it looked? All   
that mattered was the queen size bed in the middle of the   
room and the fact that she'd picked up before the wedding,   
thank God, so none of her underwear was hanging from a lamp   
or anything.  
  
Yet. She felt the smile tugging at her lips as she looked   
up. "So, we're really gonna do this, huh?"  
  
"I think so." He ran one long finger down her forehead and   
nose, dropped it to her lips when she did smile. "Not as   
childhood friends and cast-off lovers. Not as the wedding   
party or the Greek chorus. Just as...us. Francine."  
  
She narrowed her eyes at the sound of her full first name.  
  
"What? I am a spy, you know."  
  
"Hah. Even I--the only member of this wedding to have   
never been on the CIA's payroll--am not that gullible. You   
saw it when you signed the marriage license."  
  
"Guilty," he said, and as her hair tumbled down to brush   
her neck, she realized that his other hand had been undoing   
her braid. "Come here, Francine."  
  
His lips were thin but soft, and when he licked her upper   
lip she leaned into his body and his mouth. He was a more   
playful kisser than she'd expected. By the time he was   
done teasing around the edges and really, really kissed   
her, the humor was still there but so was the   
breathlessness, the arousal that had blindsided her   
sometime between the moment he offered his toast to the   
happy couple with a wink in her direction and the offer of   
non-mimosas and pigs with blankets.   
  
"Michael," she murmured as she kissed her way to his ear.   
His stubble was rough, and she pressed her cheek into it.   
She wanted his skin imprinted on hers. She wanted to be   
inside it, and if she couldn't she'd settle for being on   
the better side of that tuxedo. She brought her mouth back   
to his. Her hands slid up the front of his jacket to worry   
at the knot on his bow tie. Suddenly, she could feel the   
back of her dress gape. "Oh...clever hands."  
  
"Mine?" He brought them around until they were between   
their bodies, tracing the laced edge of her neckline with   
the backs of his fingers. He held them palm-up. "My   
hands?"  
  
"Yes, dammit," she said on a half-laugh. The tie gave way   
under her unsteady fingers, and she tossed it over her   
shoulder. "Now put them back on me."  
  
"Whatever you say, ma'am." He shrugged out of his jacket.   
"Turn around."  
  
Francie obeyed. The burgundy satin slid down into an   
uninteresting heap as Michael's mouth did wicked and   
interesting things to the back of her neck. Her bra came   
next, and she let out a moan that was more relief than sex   
when it followed the dress.  
  
"Too tight?" Michael asked as he traced the impression it   
had made in her back.  
  
"You have no idea."  
  
"Let me make it better." And then his hands were in front,   
massaging the ache away while creating an entirely   
different and much more delightful one.   
  
Francie sagged back against him. "Oh, God." She raised   
her hands to cover his. "God..." His mouth was on her   
shoulder now, biting gently, and she hoped he left marks.   
She'd have them bronzed in the morning. "Why, um, why are   
you still dressed?"  
  
"Because it's a better view this way."  
  
"Huh?" She looked up to see the closet door across the   
room. The mirrored closet door. "*Oh.*"  
  
Her hair was a tangled mess. Michael's face was only   
partly visible behind it, but she could see the lazy smile.   
In the low light, the sweat on her skin glowed. The only   
contrast on her dark skin was the cream of her half-slip   
and the white of Michael's hands, and both looked damn good   
on her. She smiled back at his reflection and stood up   
straighter to watch him kneel and remove the rest of her   
clothes.  
  
He was right. It was a better view. Even if it was a   
little blurry around the edges as he nudged her legs open   
wider. "You're beautiful," he said against her hip.   
"Beautiful, Francie."  
  
"Mmm..." she said, fascinated by the play of his fingers on   
her stomach. "Keep that up and you won't even have to   
touch me to make me come."  
  
A sudden twist of his hands, and she was facing him--well,   
she was looking down at him, but he was definitely facing   
her. "Oh, can't I do both?" he asked. He sucked on the   
skin right below her bellybutton. "Please, Francie?"  
  
"Well," she said, "if you insist." She laughed down at him   
once, then dug her nails into his shoulders and just   
*felt.*  
  
She was going to have to do some insisting of her own, in a   
while. Quite a while.  
  
***  
  
bear it with me, bear with me, bear with me,   
be with me tonight...  
  
--the end--  
  
Lyrics are from the Barenaked Ladies song "What a Good   
Boy." 


End file.
